


To Love & To Lie

by writelights



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Absinthe, Angst, Artist Grantaire, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 00:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16923243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writelights/pseuds/writelights
Summary: lie - a statement used intentionally for the purpose of deception.





	To Love & To Lie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elenchus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenchus/gifts).



> Hello, Elenchus! I had a lot of difficulty choosing what prompt to fill, as I liked them all! I spent a good week and a half torn between this one and the Marius/Courfeyrac, but in the end I felt this would be better suited to a short story. I hope you enjoy it, and have a lovely winter season!

“You drink far too much of that for your own good,” Jehan said matter-of-factly as he sat down next him, motioning at his absinthe. Grantaire picked up the glass and took another sip before offering it to the redhead, who glared at him in return.

“I would have thought you’d find it morbidly poetic, a man ruining himself in such a horrid way.” He hugged the glass to his chest in the way a child would a stuffed animal, and Jehan scoffed.

“So you admit that it’s a horrid habit.”

“I do.”

Jehan sighed and took the glass from him. He held it up to the light, admired it’s sickly green color, and took a swig. Grantaire laughed at Jehan’s face as he pushed it back into his hands. “It’s quite frankly disgusting as well.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Grantaire said, taking another sip. “And it’s not the beverage itself we’re after, anyhow. It’s the release from responsibility, the lack of caring that follows.”

“You wish to forget you love him.” The both knew who Jehan was referencing. Their brilliant leader dressed in red, sitting at one of the tables near the front with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Grantaire downed the last of his drink and waved the tavern maid over.

“Something like that, yes,” he replied before turning his attention to the rather immodest woman standing before them. “Another absinthe, please.” The woman moved away slowly, enticingly. Jehan saw the way Grantaire bit his lip as he watched the sway of her hips.

“I don’t understand…” Jehan trailed off, for he had noticed that the subject of Grantaire’s gaze had switched from the bawdy tavern maid to the man dressed in red. “If you love him, why do you not tell him?” he asked, expecting Grantaire to give him an honest answer. Instead, the man only laughed.

“You expect me to subject myself to words of hatred coming from his mouth? I am not strong, Jehan, I would not be able to stand it. I am not prideful either, but I do not believe it proper-” at this Jehan snorted, Grantaire had never been one to care much about proper etiquette “-to cry in front of a man I would much rather have in my bed.”

Jehan leaned back in his seat and studied Grantaire’s face for a few moments, only to realize that Grantaire was in fact being honest. “Enjolras is not a cruel man,” he finally said.

The tavern maid returned with Grantaire’s drink, and Jehan watched as he thanked her lavishly and handed her a couple francs. She walked off and he turned back to Jehan. “He may not be cruel to you, or to any of the other Les Amis, but the rest of you are not cynical drunks with a knack for self deprecation.”

“You truly believe he is incapable of loving you.”

“No, in fact I believe quite the contrary: I am incapable of loving him. I am incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, of dying - he has said so himself - so why should I be capable of loving?” Grantaire downed half of his absinthe in one gulp before Jehan reached out and confiscated his glass.

“You need to quit drinking this shit, it’s doing you no good,” he said as he stood up and gathered his things. “If you wish to sit and wallow in your self-pity I will leave you, I do not wish to have any part in it. Good day, Grantaire, and I’m taking the alcohol.” He walked off with his bag slung over his shoulder and the absinthe in his hand, leaving Grantaire alone once again.

-

It was late that night when Enjolras heard someone rapping upon the door of the flat he shared with Combeferre. He pulled on his dressing gown, picked up the candle whose light he’d been reading by, and made his way out of his room and to the front door. He did not know who could possibly be planning on paying a visit this late, and surely if it were something important they would have told him earlier.

He opened the door to find Jean Prouvaire standing on the other side, his hair falling from its braid and his cloak wrapped tightly around his small frame in order to protect him from the brisk March air. It made Enjolras painfully aware of how he must look with his moth-eaten dressing gown and undone hair.

“Are you going to let me in? It’s rather cold out here,” Jehan said as he waved at the door, apparently unfazed by Enjolras’ disheveled appearance. He opened the door wider and moved aside.

“Of course, but be quiet. Combeferre is asleep, as can be expected at nearly two o’clock in the morning.” Jehan shot him a glare but did not reply, instead stepping into the flat and shedding his cloak. He was wearing the same mint green waistcoat he had been earlier, and he looked as if he had not been home since the meeting. “What brings you to my home so late? Shouldn’t you be in bed, sleeping or daydreaming or whatever it is that poets do?”

Jehan shook his head. “I need to talk to you,” he said, making his way through the flat and situating himself on the lone couch in the little sitting room.

“Couldn’t you have waited until morning? I was trying to sleep.”

“You were reading.” Jehan said it so simply, as if he knew it for a fact rather than it just being a guess. Perhaps he did know it, perhaps Enjolras was just that predictable. Enjolras sat down on the couch next to him, admitting his defeat. Had it been Courfeyrac or Bousset or anyone else he wouldn’t have been able to do that, but it was Jehan and Jehan wasn’t the type to care about such things. They simply sat like that for a few moments before Jehan looked him in the eyes and said, “have you ever been in love?”

The question caught Enjolras off guard. He sputtered for a second before a quiet “no” left his lips.

Jehan studied him for a second before continuing the conversation, much to Enjolras’ discomfort. “Could you ever be in love, if given the opportunity and the right person?”

“No,” he said firmly, “my only love is Patria. Why do you ask me such things? I am merely a man, nothing more.”

“Grantaire.” It was one word, a word that rolled off Jehan’s tongue beautifully and sent shivers through Enjolras. He hid his face in his hands and began to laugh, out of nerves rather than amusement. “You find that funny?” Jehan cocked his head.

“No, no, I just…” he paused, attempting to find the right words. “He is a cynic with no care for revolution or politics, how could I possibly love him? How dare you imply that I would bed a man such as him.”

“You are being cold, Enjolras, and I will not have it. He loves you, surely you can see it in the way he looks at you, the way he beats himself up whenever you degrade him. At least you would if you paid any attention. You needn’t bed him, merely offer him a bit of your time, perhaps spare him a kiss. Take pity on him if you cannot bring yourself to like him. I do not think I am asking too much. You spend your life trying to better the world for people with less than you, yet you won’t even give him a moment when he deserves so much more. He is a good man, Enjolras, if only would could see that.” He allowed Enjolras to sputter for a bit before he continued. “I shall be leaving now,” he said, “I have places to be in the morning.”

And Jehan got up and left the house, leaving Enjolras alone to contemplate his words.

-

Enjolras left his flat around noon the next day. He wasn’t wearing red, he couldn’t bring himself to on such an occasion. Instead he was wearing sky blue, a color his mother had always said brought out his eyes.

He rapped on the door of Grantaire’s rundown little flat, hoping to God he wouldn’t answer and he could go home. His hopes were crushed when Grantaire answered the door. He was dressed presentably, a well tailored emerald green waistcoat and black trousers. His hair was combed but not styled, a look that suited him well enough. His eyes lit up when he saw Enjolras.

“Apollo!” he exclaimed, pulling Enjolras into his flat. “Oh, I was not expecting you! Surely I am dreaming.” He pinched himself excitedly, and when he opened his eyes and Enjolras was still standing there he all but squealed.

“Calm down, Grantaire, I am but a man. And please, do not call me Apollo.” He shook his arm out of Grantaire’s grasp and looked around the flat. It was small, one room, with a bed in one corner and a desk in another. Various easels sat around the room and, much to Enjolras’ discomfort, a half-finished painting of himself sat upon one of the largest. Grantaire followed his gaze and a look of horror grew on the artist’s face.

“Oh, I am sorry, I did not mean-” he ran over to the portrait and pulled it down, setting it upside down on his bed. “I hope you don’t mind, it’s just,” the franticness in his voice had faded and was replaced with subtle awkwardness. “You’re very pretty, very muse-like. Why are you paying me this visit, anyway?”

“I came to see if-” and Grantaire was kissing him before he could finish the sentence, and Enjolras was kissing back and it was heaven and hell all wrapped into one with a little red bow on top.

The broke apart and Grantaire looked as if he were about to panic, and Enjolras was scared. “I do not love you,” he said, and then he ran out of the flat as quickly as he had come.

If only he had been better at lying to himself.


End file.
